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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24973303">Old Friends</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepetulantpen/pseuds/thepetulantpen'>thepetulantpen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Tumblr Snippets [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Critical Role (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Allusions to Canon Character Death, Gen, Mild Blood/Gore, Mind Control, cross-posted from my tumblr, episode 69-centric, so spoilers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:49:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>800</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24973303</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepetulantpen/pseuds/thepetulantpen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Yasha trapped under Bazzoxan, after episode 69.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Tumblr Snippets [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807582</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Old Friends</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s ichor dripping between Yasha’s fingers. It’s sticky but she doesn’t try to shake it off, content to just watch as it sparkles in the dim torchlight.</p>
<p>Gold.</p>
<p>Then red. Blood, so much blood. Spreading over her palm, it’s- she knows whose blood this is.</p>
<p>Which makes this not even a memory but a delusion. Pathetic.</p>
<p>She stands, body turned in the direction of the Laughing Hand, though her head still faces the corpse. The soft parts- flesh, skin, organs- have sunk into the cracks of the stone, but parts of the skeleton remain, half melted.</p>
<p>She sees the familiar curve of horns and hears Obann’s laugh, imagines his brilliant eyes reflected in the pool of gold blood. Then the laugh sharpens, louder, much louder and less restrained than Obann ever could be.</p>
<p>She sees deep red again. It covers her vision, obscuring it. Shaking her head, the red shrinks down into two spots, eyes poking out of the darkness.</p>
<p>She plows ahead, not bothering to check if they disappear, if they’re even real. She should care. She <em>does</em> care.</p>
<p>Doesn’t she?</p>
<p>The Laughing Hand, her mission, and her vengeance are so important. To someone, at least.</p>
<p>To Obann, her foe, her friend? To Yasha, from before? To Yasha, now?</p>
<p>Is there a difference?</p>
<p>Where does she begin?</p>
<p>Where will she end?</p>
<p>There’s a flower in her hair, tucked behind her ear. She’s not sure when it got there, or if she put it there. Her hand itches to dig it out, but she doesn’t know what she’d do with it if she did.</p>
<p>
  <em>They’ll be safe here, in between the pages. See?</em>
</p>
<p>Her body lifts a hand, intent on crushing the flower in spite of the fervent whispers in the back of her head instructing her on how to save it, but her fingers are covered in ichor. They'll get stuck in her hair.</p>
<p>
  <em>You should really take better care of your hair. Let me brush it.</em>
</p>
<p>This is foolish. She walks forward, catching up to the Hand.</p>
<p>The crystal wall is icy blue, but as their shadows fall against it, the color darkens and she swears she sees purple, her silhouette shrinking on the surface to make someone new, someone who shouldn’t be there.</p>
<p>It shatters. Another obstacle downed.</p>
<p>There’s singing in this chamber. It’s annoying.</p>
<p>It’s louder than it should be. There’s another voice here, scratchy. Familiar.</p>
<p>She’s gone again, whisked away to a memory. She sees a fire and she expects Obann across from it but there’s someone singing and Obann doesn’t sing.</p>
<p>
  <em>Toya, don’t you know this song? Sing with me!</em>
</p>
<p>She looks up and sees the sharp smile she knows so well. His singing voice is terrible but he tries and there’s the rest of the troupe, joining him and making up for where he lacks. It’s nice-</p>
<p>They disappear. It’s Obann. He’s smiling. Her heart warms and she’s not sure if she disagrees with it.</p>
<p>There’re many Yashas all around her. She thought they’d all be arguing, fighting for control, but they’re passive. They follow her, doing as Obann would've wanted.</p>
<p>They’re just mirrored images, each wearing the same frown.</p>
<p>“Turn on the charm, Yasha!”</p>
<p>Yasha swings around, weapon in hand. It’s just a mirror, just her, snarling at nothing. Jumping at ghosts, hearing things.</p>
<p>In her reflection, Molly steps out from behind her. He’s wreathed in soft moonlight but he looks the same in every other way. The colorful coat, the brilliant smile, the deep red eyes.</p>
<p>“Yasha.”</p>
<p>Her vision twitches, scrambling her sight for a second. Molly is replaced by Obann, forming the same silhouette of horns and tail.</p>
<p>“Orphanmaker.”</p>
<p>The mirror settles again and it’s just her and Molly.</p>
<p>Obann is dead. <em>Molly</em> is dead.</p>
<p>Yasha is dead.</p>
<p>She turns her back on the mirror. At this rate, she’ll lose the Hand. She should stop wasting time- Obann wants her to hurry.</p>
<p>A hand grabs her shoulder, clawed nails sinking into the gaps in her armor, leaving crescent moons in her flesh.</p>
<p>Her body only allows a half head turn, just enough for her little window of perspective to see Molly outside of the mirror, latched onto her shoulder.</p>
<p>He is partially translucent, made of moonlight, but his touch is solid, hurting her. He frowns, she doesn’t remember him ever doing that.</p>
<p>Her body- and it’s almost certainly <em>just</em> her body this time- lashes out, bringing a sword down and through Mollymauk, cutting-</p>
<p>Just light.</p>
<p>He looks down, as if examining a wound that’s not there. Then Yasha feels it.</p>
<p>Threads of light snaking around her legs, ensnaring her. It’s holy, it burns.</p>
<p>They cover her arms, her torso, spreading from Molly’s hand. It’s warm.</p>
<p>Molly smiles, but it’s sad this time.</p>
<p>Yasha is sad. She’s scared.</p>
<p>“Don’t go, Yasha.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Working on cross-posting all my old work from Tumblr onto here, since I'm not super active on Tumblr anymore. I figured it'd be best to archive everything here, even if they're short pieces (or ones I'm not particularly proud of). I wrote this immediately after watching episode 69- which is pretty early in the morning for me, thus the fever-dream-esque quality. </p>
<p>Hope you enjoyed this throwback! (Or, if you're just catching up: Hope you enjoyed this very relevant, topical piece!)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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